


Wounded

by neichan



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Alcohol, Child Abuse, M/M, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being touched is the hardest thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded

Wounded by neichan  
Chapter 1: Chapter 1  
Author's Notes: This is NCIS: LA, G/Sam

Title: Wounded

Fandom: NCIS: LA

Genre: Gen-slash

Pairing: G/Sam

Summary: Being touched is the hardest thing.

 

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Sweat rolled off of him as he woke. His chest was filled by a hard

knot, pain spreading deep inside choking off his air. He lay still,

gasping, drenched, the wool of the couch blanket scratchy on his skin.

He had fallen asleep out here again, not in the bed where he'd been

welcome. He'd chosen, without choosing, to sleep alone.

 

The sound that had woken him from his nightmare was faint, repeated

now. A footfall, not unlike the one that had heralded childhood nights

of suffering and despair. Once it had been the sound of Him coming;

once it had been prelude to terror. Now, thirty years later the same

sound meant something very different. The sound meant relief, safety.

 

G looked up, past the bottle that had tipped, empty, on its side. He'd

killed the last of it, needing it in order to try and sleep. The case,

a Marine's child kidnapped, abused. Bringing it all rushing back,

flashbacks in his dreams making it as real for him as it had been all

that time ago. G had needed the whisky, every drop. His fist shook,

flexed on top of his body, unable to let go, not yet.

 

A shadow moved in the dark, barely there, but he knew who it was, felt

it on the currents of the hot air. G didn't reach for the gun.

Yesterday there had been hatred, anger, an overwhelming desire for

revenge. Yesterday, he'd wanted to kill. Tonight, right now, the fear

was banished, the past without power. It was Sam who came across the

floor. G would be OK.

 

The big man came closer, the street light from the open curtains a

blue-white gleam on his rich, smooth skin, his shaved head; he sat on

the edge of the couch, his expression hidden as he looked down. He

reached, moved the bottle G had tipped over in his desperate struggle

with the past, putting it further away, up on the end table. He sat

close, letting Callan feel his presence, letting it soak into him,

letting G chose if he moved any closer.

 

G stayed where he was, knowing he had cried out, maybe screamed,

causing Sam to wake in his bedroom. Sam, his friend, his partner, his

lover if two men who hadn't had sex together could be called such. The

feelings were all there. The love, the protectiveness. And the biggie,

trust.

 

For the only time, G trusted another man. A man had betrayed him as a

young child. And when that man was gone there had been another. There

had been no safety where men were concerned. G could not trust men.

Not until Sam.

 

Sam, bigger, stronger, a Navy SEAL. A man who could keep G safe more

than any gun in his own hand, a man who loved him, who understood that

love was more than sex and talk. A man who knew that G might never be

able to touch anyone like most lovers did, but who still loved him. G

didn't need to hear it said, he knew it. Sam let him know with his

eyes.

 

The sigh was almost silent, but profound. The tension leaking away,

bleeding out of his muscles, leaving him limp, skin damp, sticky, too

hot. Sam didn't move, his thigh and hip resting along Callan's side,

barely touching, but enough. G closed his eyes, waiting for it to

happen, it didn't always, but tonight he knew it would.

 

And it did. By tiny millimeters, it happened. His muscles easing from

their terrible tension, his brain letting go of the memory of hands

and mouths, of tongues and the weight of a body pressing him,

helpless, down, down, down into hell. All fading away, not forgotten,

but powerless here.

 

The remembrance of pain melted, drifted away. His body trembled, the

arm held tight across his belly eased, fell or rolled down, rested

against Sam's leg. Sam relaxed, made no attempt to touch him, to grab

for more.

 

That was it. That was all. They touched in the charged and quiet heat

of the dark. G smiled. Still Sam's face was hidden by the dark, but he

knew there was an answering smile. The connection between them sang,

the feeling was there. The caring.

 

They stayed in the dark. Moving only with infinite slowness, each

movement negotiated without words. One hand coming to rest on the

other. Fingers slipping together, tight. Holding. Shifting positions,

Sam moving to one end of the couch to sit, leaning back, G curling

smaller, making room.

 

They slept in the way they had done many times before, the link

between them no more than their entwined grip.

 

nei

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.


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